


The Galaxy Turns (With or Without You)

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Complicated Relationships, Fluff, Friends to...something, Friendship, M/M, Penance - Freeform, Pre-Relationship, Sentimental Bullshit, Sparring, series finale spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: A war did not just end because an emperor died, and atonement was not appeased by a few years of hard work.A collection of mostly-standalone scenes, showing Zeb and Kallus over the years. Marked as a WIP while I'm still adding scenes to the collection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has worked too hard for too long, and some people could use a vacation. Some people are reluctant to take it. Set post-Battle of Endor.

"Maybe I should take him to Lira San."

The war was over. So it was said, anyway, a few weeks back. Zeb knew that wars did not just end when a big ugly ball exploded, not even when emperors and their henchmen were aboard. Now it was time for the slow, endless work, the equivalent of mopping up after an excessive party. Sometimes streamers and confetti got caught up in the mop. And sometimes, in the space that came after, people did not know how to take the little breathing room they had been granted and _enjoy_ it.

No judgment. He wasn't so good at that, either. But he was getting better. Kallus, however, was _not_.

Most anyone else would call the man tireless. And he was, in a sense. Right now, as he stood with a datapad in hand, directing people this way and that, he certainly looked it. On duty, he marched, he stood straight, he looked over munitions and battlefields with a tactical eye and advised, advised, advised their leadership until others would have gone hoarse. There was something about an Imperial that you just never could beat out of him: he would go until he could go no more, no matter what uniform he wore. There was no bending; there was only breaking.

But Zeb—and he was sure he was not the only one—had seen Kallus in his rare off-hours since the Battle of Endor. The blank, thousand-yard stare, deepening with each passing moment. Zeb thought he knew what it was about. He was not a _thinker_ , exactly, but he knew a thing or two about why Kallus was here. Here, instead of with the Empire. It was not something that stopped dogging you just because the war was done.

He realized, belatedly, that Sabine had been staring at him for probably a full minute now while he mulled all this over. Her feet were kicked up on a munitions crate, her helmet on the floor beside her, and her eyes were narrowed at him like he was some piece of art she was just now making sense of.

"Spit it out," he said, bracing for the tirade.

"You should," she said. Simply. Like it was nothing. "If you want to." She'd turned her squinting on Kallus instead, now; he'd stopped doling out instructions and was instead checking the contents of several crates across the hangar. "If you can convince him to accept leave, anyway. Might have to go above his head."

"I should at least try the easy way first," Zeb muttered. "You don't think it's a...bad idea?"

The eyes were wide open now, thoughtful, as they turned to him again. Her head tipped to the side, considering. "I don't think it's a bad idea," she said, but slowly. "I see your thinking. I just think you should prepare for an unexpected reaction. There's no easy cure for this." She blew out a long sigh. It could no longer ruffle the ends of her hair, with how short she'd trimmed it. "And there shouldn't be. He would agree with me."

He would. Which would make it a lot harder to convince him to go anywhere.

Zeb heaved himself to his feet, but before he could meander off in Kallus's direction, Sabine said, "Zeb."

He glanced back. When had she gotten so grown-up, anyway? There was a soft worry in her face, and it seemed to age her even more than the war already had.

"Be careful," she said.

He knew she didn't mean it in the usual way, in the _don't-misstep-or-your-foot-might-find-a-mine_ kind of way. He waved her off, grumbling, and she only smiled and watched him amble away.

Kallus had the presence of mind to look up from his examination of the crates, at least, as Zeb approached. He did not exactly smile. His was not a face naturally inclined to smiling. But something in it warmed as his eyes found Zeb, and _that_ seemed natural, which was strange enough on its own. It had been years since Kallus had doggedly pursued their every move, shooting to kill. It had been years since a long night on a cold moon. But sometimes their friendship felt just as fresh and uncertain as it had then.

"What can I do for you?" Kallus asked. He did not go back to his datapad or his crates. That much was good.

Zeb folded his arms across his chest. "You been cleared for some time off?"

Now, Kallus glanced away. He didn't do that when he was about to lie, only when he was about to tell a truth he wished he could convince himself to conceal. Cautiously, he said, "Yes," and that was all.

It didn't really invite further questions, but Zeb was plenty dogged, too. "Yeah, me too," he said. "Thinking of taking a trip. Getting away from all this for a little while."

Now Kallus _did_ smile, but it was not as good as that first expression he'd worn. It looked a little forced. "You certainly deserve it. I hope it is...restful." This last, he said dubiously. A hint of humor. He did not imagine that Zeb ever enjoyed anything _restful_.

Well, he was right. But while Lira San was not a warzone, neither was it restful, and there was more than a little anxiety about returning there. He felt it every time. His people, but still not quite _his_ people. It was a bittersweet place. And as much as this idea had been born of trying to ease Kallus's mind, however little, Zeb could use a friend there, if he was going.

"Want to come along?" he said. He tried to make it sound casual instead of hopeful. "It's a nice little place. You'd like it." _I hope_ , Zeb thought.

Kallus hesitated. For an instant, Zeb thought the easy way was going to work. But then Kallus shook his head. "Thank you for the invitation, but I should remain here." He picked up the datapad. Conversation closed. "Someone needs to hold down the fort while you're gone, after all. I should finish this." Another not-as-good, almost apologetic smile, and he paced away to another set of crates, tapping away on the datapad.

Zeb glanced back at Sabine. She passed a hand over her head. Even at a distance, Zeb could tell she was laughing.

The hard way, then. 

* * *

A war did not just end because an emperor died, and atonement was not appeased by a few years of hard work.

But he regretted turning down Zeb's offer. He would not have done it differently, no, but he wished, especially now—on what he'd heard was the night of Zeb's departure from the fleet—that he could have. It had been a long time since he'd had such a friend. And there had never been another like him, certainly. Capable of changing the shape of Kallus's world in the span of a night. He did not deserve it.

It was a knee-jerk thought, and he pushed it down. None of that. He did not get to decide what he deserved. That was in the hands of other, better people. If Zeb could look through his history and still offer friendship, then Kallus would accept his judgment. He needed only a short, stern conversation with himself to reaffirm this, same as every other doubtful moment in the last several years.

He returned to eating his rations, setting that aside. He would be leaving the fleet tomorrow, too. A clean-up operation, routing Imperial holdouts. He did not exactly relish the work, but he took the opportunity to treat his former allies fairly—when they would _accept_ that opportunity, anyway. And when they wouldn't, he did not shy away from what was required of him.

He would get other time with Zeb. Another mission, another operation, when Zeb returned; so it had been for years now. The clean-up would go on for a while, yet. He had no doubt that Zeb would fully immerse himself in it when his leave was over.

His mind kept returning to that subject today, it seemed. He'd almost made a clerical error inventorying some of those crates, he'd been so caught up in it. It was just that he'd seen the twitch of disappointment in Zeb's ears, though he'd done a good job of hiding it. Kallus hoped he was not hurt by the rejection. Not too hurt, at least. Maybe Sabine would go with him instead. She was due for leave, too. Perhaps he could have a word with her, suggest it. She would likely be on the _Ghost_ in hangar—

"We're going to miss our window."

It was not often that Kallus was so absorbed in his thoughts that someone could sneak up on him. He would have been dead by now, surely, if that was the case. And buried beneath clerical errors. But Zeb, of all people, was looming over the table, and Kallus had not heard so much as a footfall. Embarrassing.

For a moment, he was too startled by this sudden appearance to say anything; then his brain caught up with the words. "Sorry?"

Zeb pointed at the datapad sitting beside Kallus's plate. He didn't know how long the indicator light had been flashing. Bemused, he opened up the message. His eyebrows climbed higher with every line he read. It was signed by General Syndulla.

He thought about arguing, but he'd just had that stern conversation with himself, not five minutes ago.

"I see," he said. "Well, it seems I am available to accompany you on your trip after all."

He looked up at Zeb. There was a way he held himself when he was uncertain, and he was doing it right now, the ears a little lowered, the shoulders a little hunched, the eyes a little worried.

"You don't have to—you could go anywhere," Zeb said. "It's your leave."

 _Where else would I go?_ he thought, but did not say. It smacked of bitterness, and that wasn't Zeb's responsibility. There was no family for Kallus to go home to, but that was because his family was _here_. He would not trade it. It was a second, selfish reason that he had not planned to take the offered leave. He felt most himself surrounded by the Rebellion.

They would stop calling it that soon, he supposed.

"I'd like to go with you," Kallus said. He made it sound as sincere as possible. It was, after all. He did not have to try very hard—just enough to overcome his natural inclination toward underplaying genuine feeling, to concealing emotion. "If your offer still stands."

Zeb grinned. There was relief in that wide smile. He offered a hand out, as if he knew that Kallus's leg was aching. "Then come on. Ship's waiting."

Kallus took the hand; Zeb hauled him up easily, keeping the weight off his leg, which only twinged a little and then settled down again. "Thanks," he said.

Zeb squeezed his hand and let go. Kallus tucked the datapad under his arm, picked up his plate, and dropped it off to the dishwashers on their way out.

"I should pick up my gear," he said. "I was packed for departure tomorrow; it shouldn't take long."

They deviated toward his temporary quarters, Zeb loping along easily at his side. His bag was ready, sitting neatly at the foot of his made-up bed. He leaned down to sling it over his shoulder; when he straightened up, Zeb was glancing around the room, brow furrowed.

"What is it?"

"Need to liven this place up," Zeb said. "It's a little...bare."

"It's temporary," Kallus said, amused now.

Zeb fixed him with a thoughtful look. "You ever think about finding somewhere a little more permanent?"

Kallus said, "No," but there was a beat of traitorous hesitation before the single syllable. It was not untrue, not technically. Every time the thought crossed his mind, he discarded it. For later perusal. A later that would likely never come.

Zeb only nodded, not pressing the point, and gestured for him to hurry up. He pressed the door closed behind him.

"Where _are_ we going?" he asked, adjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder.

Zeb's ears twitched, lowered. "It's a...surprise."

"What kind of surprise?" Kallus said, though not with any suspicion. " _Surprise, it's time to kill you?_ Or—"

Zeb laughed, cutting him off. The space inside Kallus's chest warmed. Zeb, laughing at what barely passed as a joke, did that to him. And so did the fact that Zeb's unease had dropped away, that all was as comfortable and familiar as it should be between them. He took, gratefully, what he was given.

"Just a place I like," Zeb said. "No killing necessary, as long as you behave."

"I will try," Kallus agreed, and Zeb chuckled again, more quietly this time.

He led them through into the hangar where _Ghost_ was currently housed, but instead of approaching this ship, he turned toward another. A larger cargo ship. Kallus glanced over his shoulder, puzzled.

"We're not taking _Ghost_?"

"Hera and Sabine aren't coming," Zeb said. "We're catching a ride with a supply run."

Sabine sat on the loading ramp of the _Ghost_ , in fact, munching on a piece of fruit and looking entirely comfortable for lounging around in full armor. She waved to Zeb and Kallus with her free hand, smiling. "Have a good time!" she called, grinning.

Zeb waved back, and Kallus did, too. It could not hurt.

But he felt Sabine's thoughtful gaze on his back all the way to the other ship, and even well after he was out of sight.

* * *

"Hera couldn't get away?" Kallus's voice asked from behind Zeb as they wove through a few rebels, scurrying to make ready for departure. Zeb told himself that the man couldn't help _digging_ , even after being told, blatantly, that no forthright information would be given to him.

But Zeb said, "I didn't ask them to come." That didn't give away too much. He hoped.

They'd reached the empty lounge area; the crew was all on duty, and they two the only passengers. As he dropped into a seat, he caught the expression on Kallus's face. He'd managed that more, over the last few years. Kallus still had the habits of a spy, through and through, but there were times when he let his guard down—when he felt safe—and those were the times that more of his feelings showed. And other things. His humor, for example, which he claimed was bad but that Zeb liked just fine.

He looked...touched. And, close on the heels of that, confused. Brows drawing together, the line of his mouth pulling into the slightest frown as he sat down beside Zeb.

Kallus rarely hinted at the paths his mind took in moments like these. He had been nothing but gratitude and hard work since the Rebellion had taken him in. He had not self-flagellated for his past crimes—at least, not where anyone could hear. He had offered one, single, sincere apology to each member of the _Ghost_ , and one to the leadership of the rebellion; the latter had waved it off and considered it done. Spies had to come from somewhere. Some of them had to start from within the Empire.

And the crew of the _Ghost_ , too, had accepted—however warily—and moved on. But Zeb knew better about Kallus. He knew his own fair share about guilt, and as much as he could, he thought they understood one another.

"I've spent more downtime with them than I can stand," he said, an exaggeration rather than an outright lie. "You, on the other hand, never get your nose out of your datapad or munitions crates or blaster fire long enough for downtime."

Kallus chuckled, reached up, and clapped Zeb on the shoulder. "I'm honored that you want to spend time with me when we're not being shot at. Though I wonder if we'll even know what to do with ourselves."

"We'll figure something out." A droning voice issued from the comm, and the ship lurched, taking flight. "Right on schedule."

Kallus patted Zeb on the shoulder, twice, and withdrew his hand. As he settled a little deeper in his chair, he looked...not quite content. Anticipatory, curious. But the thousand-yard stare was gone, at least.

And the touch of hand on shoulder lingered, like a ghost. Karabast. Zeb didn't know what he was doing. It was not so different from any other day; there was some comfort in that. In this, though, he'd have appreciated a little direction. And he was on his own.

It wasn't a long journey. A couple of days through hyperspace only. They knew he was coming; they knew who was coming with him. He had not wanted to surprise them with that.

The nerves stretched thin over those days, though, and Kallus didn't help. He didn't know how to relax, Zeb had already observed; he found this or that repair to make on the ship, one crew member or another to help out, and roped Zeb into assisting, too. None of them _necessary_ , but there wasn't a ship in the fleet that hadn't taken some kind of damage, cosmetic or not, over the course of the war.

"You always been like this?" Zeb asked, handing over the requested wrench.

Kallus paused, one arm deep within the panel. "Your nerves are getting on my nerves," he said dryly. "If you won't tell me where we're going, or _why_ you're so nervous about it, then my best hope is keeping myself occupied until we get there."

Zeb rubbed the back of his neck, abashed. "I'm not nervous."

"Of course you're not," Kallus said amiably, beginning to fiddle around in the panel again.

Well, it would all be explained soon enough. Zeb kept his mouth shut. Kallus gave him one last, searching look, but didn't press further.

They worked on in silence, which was companionable enough. Zeb went over, again, what he was going to say. How he was going to try to say it. How he was going to explain. Better to think of those things ahead of time; put on the spot, he often said the wrong thing or nothing at all.

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?" Kallus asked, beginning to carefully rearrange wires inside the panel. "Usually that look is reserved for a dozen stormtroopers, at minimum."

Zeb unclenched his jaw and didn't look over at Kallus. "Just hope you like the place, is all."

"Are there angry, armored beasts that might attempt to eat us?" Kallus said. From the corner of his eye, Zeb saw the edge of a smirk. "Cold so deep it blisters, maybe?"

Zeb managed a laugh. "Weather's pretty mild, actually."

"I note the absence of a response on the subject of beasts. Nevertheless, since I have been promised I will not freeze to death, I'm inclined to like the place, since you're so fond of it."

He probably ought to have warned Kallus ahead of time. The whole surprise element—maybe that was not the best part of the idea. He opened his mouth to give what warning he could, but just then, the ship shuddered as it dropped out of hyperspace.

Well. Done was done.

More hurriedly now, he worked to arrange the innards of the panel and close it up. His pulse had picked up, a thrum audible in his ears. "We're here."

Kallus finished off his panel, too, pushing it shut with a snap. "And now I suppose I will see where _here_ is?"

Zeb got to his feet, reaching a hand down to pull Kallus up. "In a minute. Patience."

Kallus's eyes narrowed, but he accepted the hand. "You have no right to counsel anyone on _patience_ , Zeb."

The ship shuddered again—a different kind of shudder. Zeb had to stifle a groan. They must've been waiting just barely out of the blasted hyperspace lane.

"Did something just lock onto us?" Kallus asked, frowning now.

"A welcome party," Zeb said, half a grumble; he'd told them to _stay put_ until they landed, but these people were not required to listen to him. "Come on."

He led the way to the bridge, but outside the door, he paused. Small chance of Kallus recognizing the imploded star cluster and the debris, but just in case…

"Perhaps you mean to kill me after all," Kallus said. "With suspense."

Zeb grumbled. "Close your eyes."

One of Kallus's eyebrows quirked up, maybe amused, but he did as he was told. Trusting. Well, it was good it went both ways. This place was a lot to trust anyone with. Its location was not widely known even among the Rebellion.

But just to make sure he didn't peek, Zeb put a hand over Kallus's eyes, the other steady on his shoulder to guide him, and led him through the door to the bridge. Lira San was in sight, just visible through the debris of the cluster. The crew on the bridge ignored them entirely; the area took close attention to navigate through.

Zeb took his hand away. "Okay. Look."

Kallus blinked, peered out the viewscreen at the planet coming into sight. For a moment, he only looked. "I don't recognize it," he said finally, though something in his voice said he had an itch, in the back of his brain, a familiarity that he couldn't place. "Should I?"

"No. It's Lira San. The lasat homeworld."

Kallus didn't move, and when he spoke next, his voice was a little hoarse. Almost pleading. "I don't understand. Lasan—"

"We immigrated there. And forgot Lira San." Zeb shook his head. It was still hard to distill, to explain. "Only just found it again, a few years back."

"This star cluster," Kallus said, slowly. "Where I had to turn back. At the edge of Wild Space."

"That's the one," Zeb said. His own voice sounded far distant to him, struggling for evenness.

Kallus moved forward, closer to the viewscreen. Zeb's hand dropped away from his shoulder; he let Kallus go, let him look. Despite the words he'd spoken, it seemed as if Kallus hadn't breathed in several minutes; he held himself that still, even as his feet carried him on.

"Have you…" His voice struggled for words, rougher than Zeb had ever heard it. Hoping, desperately hoping, and pained all at once. "Are there…"

There was a soft _whoosh_ , and the door to the bridge opened. Kallus turned back, hastily composing his features. For a moment, Zeb caught the edge of agony and overwhelming relief before his face settled into something more neutral again.

Only until he saw the figures standing in the doorway, though, and then astonishment overcame him. Something that was, for him, a wild, terrible happiness.

It had been the right thing, to bring him here.

Zeb put his hand back on Kallus's shoulder. It looked like the man needed it. "There are millions," he said. "These are just the ones who couldn't wait until we landed to meet you."

* * *

Kallus thought he lost entire moments—and maybe years off his life—as the lasats came onto the bridge to meet him. The only grounding force in the galaxy was Zeb's arm around his shoulders, a heavy, reassuring weight. But not without tension; there was something here that discomfited Zeb, too, and Kallus wasn't sure what it was.

His being here? No, no, he had been invited, very nearly dragged along, in fact, and he could not believe that Zeb would do that if he also worried that Kallus's presence threatened the safety of his people. Maybe he worried that Kallus would react poorly, though, was on alert not for a murderous rampage but something less insidious.

There were millions of them. They were alive. He had not—

No, no, he had. He most certainly had. The universe had just seen fit to balance against his actions; that was all.

He felt numb. He could hardly hear them through the blood rushing in his ears. He was not sure if it was happiness or something else he was feeling; it felt so terrible that it could hardly be that. He managed to clasp his hands and bow back to them. His body moved without his express direction.

"You up for it?" Zeb asked, and the words came to him through the piecemeal whirlwind of the last few minutes. They were taking the supplies down to Lira San on their ship. They were inviting him and Zeb along. They were smiling at him encouragingly, maybe mistaking the look on his face for…

Did _he_ even know what the look on his face meant?

"Yes," he managed. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

The lasats— _Chava, Gron,_ his brain supplied—led the way for them, chatting amiably to Zeb. He was beginning to regain his senses; Zeb's hand was still on his shoulder. And what he saw was that the tension existed between Zeb and the others. It wasn't hostility, nothing so harsh, more an uneasiness. A reticence, on Zeb's part. He began to suspect that the hand on his shoulder was as much to comfort Zeb as it was to comfort him.

And he did not mind, but neither did he understand.

They shuffled onto the other ship and departed for the surface. Lira San grew larger and larger beneath them, until they were passing through wispy clouds, in sight of plains that reminded Kallus a little of Lothal. And there were cities across this landscape, some large and some small. They made for one of the smaller, lower settlements, in the midst of where the plains began to transition into forest, or maybe jungle. They drew closer and closer and Kallus saw people, lasats, in the streets. Saw children waving at the ship coming nearer.

It was beautiful.

Beside him, Zeb smiled—a quick, wide grin. Kallus realized he'd spoken. And he wouldn't take it back.

But he _did_ need to get a hold of himself. He tried to shake off the fugue as the ship landed. "Can I help?" he asked; some of the lasats were beginning to unload the cargo. More were coming up from the dock.

"He's just as you said," Chava said to Zeb, which caused him, for a moment, to look sheepish. "All hands are welcome."

Zeb had talked to these people—to _his_ people—about Kallus. Probably to warn them. To ask permission for him to come here? He was in danger of getting lost in the current of his own confusion again, so he set those thoughts aside—for later—and joined in the unloading. Other lasats greeted Zeb, calling out to him. There was one word repeated; Kallus knew only a little of the language, and he couldn't make sense of it. Or maybe it was a string of words. More than once he saw Zeb rubbing the back of his neck, grumbling.

The crates were unloaded. Zeb shook off an escort—"I know the way to my own house!"—and they set off through the streets, Kallus following beside Zeb. There was a feast, Chava's voice echoed after them. They should attend. In a few hours, of course. Plenty of time to settle in.

Others knew Zeb along the paths they took. These more often murmured words than called out, but still, Zeb's uneasiness lingered until they reached the very edge of the settlement, and a house that stood there apart from all the others. A smallish house, but looked after. There were a few trees near it, an unknown fruit hanging from them; Zeb plucked two, almost absentmindedly, and brushed the door aside.

Someone had cracked a window in preparation for Zeb's arrival, so that the air would not be stale. The inside was bright, colorful. Hangings and rugs. Some art. Kallus saw a piece that could only have been painted by Sabine, hanging pride of place on a wall where no one could miss it. She had painted a few such murals of the _Ghost_ crew since the liberation of Lothal, but this had a few additional figures. Rex. Chava. Gron.

Kallus.

Hair grown out a little; seeing it in the painting made him push it back, automatically, from his face. Wearing a drab jacket and a slight smile, he stood beside Zeb, who was grinning. It looked like the most natural expression in the world on his face.

But this Zeb, the flesh-and-blood Zeb, was making a poor attempt at it. "So," he said. He gave an aimless gesture to encompass everything around them. "What do you think?"

Kallus meant to repeat his earlier sentiment, but his mouth opened and something else entirely came out: "What's wrong?"

Zeb's ears lowered. It was the wrong thing to say. "Nothing's wrong." In a lower grumble, "Karabast."

Usually Kallus would not press the point. They were neither of them good at discussing what unsettled or upset them. But he did not understand this. And he _wanted_ to understand.

"You've been on edge since we got here. _Before_ we got here," Kallus amended, and Zeb frowned more deeply. "Your people are alive. Thriving. But something's wrong."

"My people," Zeb muttered. Troubled. He turned the pieces of fruit in his hands. "I thought I would never have another of these, after Lasan. Almost every house had the tree. The fruit was the sweetest…" He blinked down at the purple-skinned fruit. "But it doesn't taste the same on Lira San. It must have changed after the ancients brought it to Lasan."

His people, but not his people. Now Kallus thought he understood. He opened his mouth to speak—to say what, again, he could not be sure—but Zeb continued on.

"It's not the same. But it's good enough." A little of the tension dropped from his shoulders. "And we've found some, from Lasan, and brought them here. The lasats will change, but they'll survive. That's...that's what I wanted to show you." He held out one of the fruits.

They were halfway across the room from one another, Kallus near Sabine's painting, Zeb hovering near the kitchen, but he crossed the distance between them to take the fruit. It was unexpectedly light.

"I…" He shook his head and tried—futilely, but he tried—to organize his thoughts. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"You looked a little shell shocked." Zeb peered down at him, eyes narrowing. "You alright?"

"I am."

"Which?"

Kallus laughed. It didn't sound quite right, but it would do. "Both. I'm not sure. I want to know everything. Have you come back often? What was that they were calling you? How did you even find this place?"

"Kallus—"

"Why would you bring _me_ here?" The question spilled out unbidden, and he could not pull it back. It was dangerously close to saying what he had sworn he would not say. There was room for one apology made of words. Only one. The rest had to be made of actions, a lifetime of them. But panic was beginning to eat away inside of him, chewing through the boundaries he had carefully maintained. "You could have simply told me. You did not need to...I should not be here. It's not right. I—"

There was a very soft _thump_ as the fruit Zeb had been holding fell to the rug and then rolled away. His hands enclosed Kallus's shoulders. Kallus's mouth snapped shut. He could feel his throat beginning to close up.

"I say what's right," Zeb said. "And I say you're my friend, and I wanted to show you my home, and maybe that your mistake was only bad and not the worst."

"Through no designs of my own."

"The galaxy doesn't turn around _you_."

He almost argued—that no, of course it didn't, but—but—

But Zeb was right. There was an arrogance in taking so much responsibility for his...blunderings. In taking _too_ much. Zeb had not said as much, but it was still clear in the words he'd used. And Zeb was waiting patiently—yes, patiently—for that to sink in, his features a little sad and strained but otherwise open. Kallus could not say he had been the same.

"You're right," Kallus said. He felt as if he'd just run several miles at a dead sprint. He was that tired. He _knew_ he was that tired. And he hadn't let himself feel it until now. "You're right."

"You've done good for the Rebellion." There was pride in that. Of course; Zeb could claim some share of his good deeds. Zeb could claim them all. He had changed the course of all things, for Kallus. "You'll do good for the Republic. But it's not scales balancing. That won't make you feel any different. It's in here." One curled finger tapped Kallus's chest. "That's where you move past it."

"How?"

He had never wanted to know. Never pondered it. Had put it away for later. There was no moving beyond; there was only reliving that place, a thousand different ways, a thousand tiny new revelations that peeled back and back and back until the ugly raw remainder of his soul was exposed.

"Stay here a while," Zeb said. "And let's see if we can do something besides shoot things, yeah?"

Kallus wasn't sure who moved, who closed the gap, but Zeb's arms were around his shoulders and Kallus had hands full of Zeb's shirt against his spine. There had been another soft _thump_ , another fruit falling. He didn't know how to begin to let go. Zeb was a weight, steadying him, but he thought he was steadying Zeb, too, so he held on.

"Your house is nice," he said over Zeb's shoulder—answering a question that had been asked perhaps an hour ago. Perhaps only five minutes. He still did not sound quite like himself, but then. Maybe he wasn't. "The painting is...I like the painting."

"Shut up," Zeb said, but affectionately. A heavy, gentle hand patted his back.

For the moment, Kallus could do that. Could close his eyes. Could rest. For the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To move forward, first we must go back.
> 
> This chapter is set directly post-Zero Hour. A friendship, tentatively beginning after being put on hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a year late to this, I know, but here's my take.

He'd really done it. He'd really left the Empire.

Zeb had caught a glimpse of him—battered and bruised and hair out of place and blood bright red on his mouth, but stoic, looking at no one. Just staring out the viewport as the stars slid together and hyperspace surrounded them. There was no naming the expression on that face.

But whatever it was, it was following Zeb. He heard everything Hera, Sabine, and Ursa were saying, absorbed it, but the rest of his brain was occupied with the Imperial he'd accidentally recruited.

The Imperial who was now _here_. Defection complete. Last box checked. It seemed neat, a procedure carried through to the end, but Zeb couldn't help the unease stirring in his stomach, because what if this was all an act, and _what if_ it had been a long, long game to spy on the Rebellion instead, a contingency plan of Thrawn's if the battle went south, and _what if_ —

He didn't even know what else to what-if about. That was the trouble with Thrawn. With the Empire. Their minds were like mazes, and Zeb just got lost in them. The certainty he'd felt, hearing Kallus's voice so distant beneath Fulcrum's distortion, seeing for himself the ways Kallus had helped Zeb's friends—Zeb's _family_ —faded now that the man himself stood just down the hallway. Gut feelings were tricky, that way.

Kanan had passed by some time ago; now Ezra came through, the look on his face still as sober as it'd been since re-boarding the _Ghost_ , but he perked up when he spotted Zeb and made a beeline for him.

"I've thought of a new recruitment tactic," he said, keeping his voice low enough that Hera's conversation was uninterrupted.

"Yeah?" Zeb said, still distracted. Maybe talking to Kallus would help with the anxiety. Get a look for himself, and all that. "What's that?"

"We kidnap Imperials, trap them alone with you for a night, and tada: we have new rebels."

It took a moment to filter through Zeb's distraction, and then he gave Ezra's shoulder a shove. Ezra, grinning, did not try to duck away from it, though he'd had plenty of time to prepare.

"Very funny," Zeb muttered.

"Well?" Ezra asked, still bright-eyed from the joke. Zeb let the kid have it; he probably needed it. "Aren't you going to go talk to him? He looks kind of…" He pulled a face.

"Kind of what?"

"Out of place, I guess. Must be the uniform. Could probably use a friendly face." Ezra peered doubtfully up at Zeb— _you're a friendly face, haha, get it? To an **Imperial**? What are the odds_ —but this was all teasing, an act by a kid who'd seen a lot more of the awful side of this galaxy than he should've today. Just trying to forget.

"You're probably right," Zeb said. Usually he'd give as good as he got, to Ezra, but not today. Today, he reached out and clasped the kid's shoulder. "Thanks for getting us out of this one."

The attempt at humor cracked. Ezra's shoulders drooped a little. "Wish it could have been more of us," he muttered.

Zeb squeezed. "It'll be enough. You'll see."

Ezra didn't meet his eyes, but neither did he yank away from the touch. He'd be okay. Zeb patted his shoulder and made off for the hallway; Hera and Sabine were in the midst of figuring something out, and it didn't sound like they needed him.

But Kallus. Yeah. Kallus probably _could_ use a friendly face.

He stuck out in that short hallway. The figure in black, standing apart from the rest. He'd smoothed his hair back into place, and the blood on his mouth was now little more than a stain of rust—someone had been through with basic medical supplies—but he still held himself like there wasn't a part of his body that was unbruised.

He looked up at Zeb's approach. Something shifted in the brown eyes, moving between wariness and hope and then just as quickly steadying, settling into watchfulness. Zeb stopped before him; Kallus kept his eyes on Zeb's and didn't blink, didn't look away.

"I guess you decided to chase the answers," Zeb said, since _hey, how've you been?_ didn't seem like it would cut it.

Kallus let out a rush of air, the trace of a laugh buried in it, and winced; one arm tensed where it was held around his ribs. "I...yes." A flash of hope. A wariness that made him look younger, just as it had in the light of that meteorite.

"Sounds like a hell of a story," Zeb said, shuffling his feet. "If you need an ear."

He look uncertain, hesitant, but after an instant's pause, he nodded. "If you'd like to hear it."

The adrenaline had worn out of him, by the way he limped a little as he walked alongside Zeb, by the way his shoulders curled as he sat down on the lone chair in Zeb's room. Zeb sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk. Kallus stretched out the formerly-broken leg. Hopefully not re-broken, not if he could walk on it like that, but hurting.

For a moment, they sat like that, in the quiet, not quite looking at one another and not talking, either. Zeb had no idea what to say. What _did_ you say, in a situation like this? It seemed incredible that they could be sitting in the same room, not attempting to kill one another. Just attempting, desperately, to find middle ground instead.

Were they? Could he say that for sure? Kallus had done some things for them, sure, had helped them out. Things Zeb was grateful for. Had saved _Zeb's_ fur, too, in that weird pocket outside of space and time when cold and armored monsters had forced the issue. But he was Kallus. And Zeb had to admit, if only to himself—despite what he might have said to Sabine about friendship, despite that awkward conversation with the _Ghost_ crew about Bahryn—that he did not know Kallus.

Before Zeb could say any of this, though, could do any wondering out loud, Kallus spoke. He began suddenly, his voice harsh in the silence. "I managed to return to the fleet. No thanks to the Empire; they'd given me up for dead. I thought about…" He cleared his throat. "I could not stop thinking about our separate convictions, on Bahryn. Who would come for us. That yours were correct. That mine were not. I wondered what else you were right, and I was wrong, about."

He fell silent again. Elbows braced on his thighs, he'd drawn the leg back up, as if out of habit. By the marks on the uniform, someone had kicked him there, in the shin, plenty hard. Whatever had been holding his hair in place had been long-ago sweated out, and despite that he'd smoothed it back into place earlier, strands were beginning to fall free again.

"Quite a lot," he said finally, his voice much quieter, "it turned out." Now he looked up; there was feeling in that face again, and Zeb thought that it was purposeful, that he had convinced himself to mask nothing. "I am...new to...I don't know very much. I don't know anything, it seems like, sometimes. But my apology to you on Bahryn was insufficient."

This again. Zeb's stomach twisted. He did not want to go over this ground; it was tight-packed with mines. "I told you, I—"

"What I said to Sabine can never be true." Kallus's eyes burned, and Zeb experienced the childish desire to cover his ears. Not childish; of course the subject was painful to him, of course he did not want to hear it, but curiosity lingered. It did not allow him to turn away. "We will never be even. I have begun to grasp the extent of my mistakes, instead of merely turning a blind eye to them, so I am certain of this. I ask no forgiveness; it is impossible to give. We need never discuss it again. But I will work to save what can be saved from the ashes. Not to demonstrate anything to you, not to change your opinion of me, but because it can be the only course of action that is at all right. I must make my meager attempt at reparations. It is worthless, but I am sorry."

Zeb—despite his misgivings—gave Kallus a long, searching look. It was not at all like what he'd said on Bahryn. Those had been excuses. Context, yes, but hardly an admission of guilt. This was, by contrast, fervent.

"You know your way around speeches," Zeb said, because Kallus was right; forgiveness for this could not even be offered. They would be hollow words, and it seemed like Kallus was now done with those.

He waved an impatient hand through the air. "As I said. It is done. I know you dislike discussing Lasan; let this be the last time I mention it to you."

He was so certain, his words so even, that Zeb was sure he'd thought about what he would say, over and over again, tweaking a phrase there, adjusting it here. Making sure it came out the way he meant it. But his mouth stuttered—barely audible, but just enough hesitation for Zeb's hearing—around _Lasan_ , and his fingers flexed, clenching, and one of the scabs cracked and began to ooze fresh blood. He'd gotten in some hits of his own.

Karabast, what to make of this man? It had been so easy to hate him until Bahryn. But it could never be easy with him again. The hate had melted down into something harder to grasp. It would never be easy to trust him. It would never be easy to _like_ him. Zeb already did, and it raised the bile in his throat just to admit it. But if Kallus could look at everything that was ugly and messy inside of himself and lay it out on the table without fear—if _Kallus_ could do that—then Zeb could, too.

"I'm impressed," he said, and the burning went out of Kallus's eyes; his head jerked back almost as if he'd been slapped. "You could've just buried what happened on Bahryn. Told yourself you went along with the rebel beast to survive." Kallus flinched. The veneer was peeling. "Earlier than that, even—you had the transponder, the meteorite, my bo-rifle. You could've killed me and called it done. But you're made of better stuff."

Kallus's head dropped, hung between his hunched shoulders. "If I'm _made of better stuff_ , then why didn't I figure this out on my own?" he said, and the words sounded like acid on his tongue. "We both know the answer."

Zeb thought they probably did; it was just that Kallus had, so far, refused to see it. And would for a while, yet. A good long while. He would think it safer to put the judgments and decisions in the hands of his new allies, allow them to tell him what was right and what was wrong, because he could not begin to trust himself again. But someday, that would not be enough. The bad kind did not just wear Imperial uniforms. It was not that easy. He would need to decide for himself, again, what was right and what was wrong.

Whether he would admit it or not, he had already done that. With a _push_ , sure. But Zeb didn't kid himself; he wasn't good with words, and whatever convincing he'd done on Bahryn had only been a catalyst. A spark in the cold.

"Yeah," Zeb said. "It'll take you a while to make sense of it, though. You're awful slow sometimes. It took you, what, a year to figure out how to report in as Fulcrum?"

Goading him was fun, true. Kallus had a sense of humor, but it was hidden away somewhere in the hair gel and the folds of the uniform and beneath the armor; you had to dig at him to dig it out. Goading with _purpose_. The fun was just a bonus.

Kallus lifted his head. "I worked more feverishly to learn about the Rebellion's operations than I ever did while I was merely hunting you. It took me six months to learn enough about the Empire to convince myself to defect. It took another three to infiltrate your informant channels. And it was easier than it should have been. Your security needs work."

"If a rat like you got into it? Yeah, it does," Zeb returned.

Kallus was good at reading people. Just a little slow at it, right now, with the aftermath of everything that had happened, with how long it had been since he'd last slept, with distractions in the form of cracked ribs and bruises needling him. After a few heartbeats' worth of stillness, he began to smirk. The cut on his lip pulled but, at least, did not reopen. Zeb grinned back, baring teeth. It was not exactly _comfortable_ , but it was getting there.

"At least I know how other rats think," Kallus said. "I can shore up your defenses against...shut _up_."

Zeb laughed, huge, long guffaws. The adrenaline had gone out of him, too, after all. The sobering reality that just as the Rebellion was getting some steam going, they'd lost so much—it was beginning to seep in, and now he was here, talking about rats with the rat king himself, who was trying to play along with the joke, trying to stumble through the steps and tripping every other. That was Kallus, wasn't it? Ratting out even his own people, Imperials? Now that they had him here, what was he going to do to _them_?

The laughter died just as suddenly as it had begun. The silence afterward grew clammy, cold.

"Talk," Zeb said, roughly.

Kallus did, filling the silence. He told an okay story. The voice made up for the shortcomings of his narrative. And Zeb listened, trying to fill his brain with someone else's life, instead of turning it loose to think about how they would—how they even _could_ —rebuild.

But Kallus, too, had just lost everything. Even if it wasn't much to lose. He was here with just the clothes on his back—clothes he would not be able to wear much longer—and a world of uncertainty ahead of him. That's the way they all came to the Rebellion, seemed like. Because they had nothing left. Nothing left but hope.

Common ground, but still ugly ground.

Kallus's voice had finally gone a little hoarse when the story was done being told. The bruise was deepening around his eye. Blood vessels burst where a fist had connected. Probably Thrawn's.

"I should have gone when Bridger came to extract me," he muttered. "It was arrogance to think that I...I thought I could help you more. If I could stay a little longer. And instead, this."

This. But they would have been taken by surprise, one way or another, on Lothal or on Atollon. Thrawn had always known too much. The only difference here was the loss of a base. The loss of life—or so it seemed to Zeb—had been inevitable. Not this week, or this month, or even since the outset of the greater Rebellion or one rebel cell; it had been inevitable farther back than that. To the origins of the Empire itself. You couldn't put that on one man.

"Don't tell Ezra," Zeb said. Another attempt, however weak, to lighten the mood. "You'll never hear the end of it, and I won't either."

Kallus let out a low, feeble chuckle. "I will try to keep it to myself." He paused, and for the first time in the whole telling, he glanced around, eyes passing over the door as if searching for something.

"What?" Zeb asked.

"I expected…" Kallus shook his head. "No. I did not know what to expect, when I made it to that escape pod. I know that your protocol differs from Imperial protocol. But so far I see _no_ protocol. What is going to happen to me?"

He said this without fear, without even a trace of real curiosity. He was seeking procedure, a path to follow that marked the way. Parameters, expectations.

"I don't know," Zeb said slowly, honestly. "You're kind of a special case."

Kallus shot him an aggrieved look, made even more aggravated by the puffy eye. "I would settle for basics. The likelihood of seeing the inside of a cell, perhaps."

Zeb snorted. "I doubt it. You're too valuable. Rats, remember?"

Kallus's eyes narrowed. "I can provide information just as easily from behind bars."

"After the way you stuck your neck out for us, they're not going to stick you in a cell." Kallus seemed about to argue further, but Zeb kept going. "Beggars can't be choosers, right?"

"All right." He didn't look like he quite believed, but he was willing to set that aside, for the moment.

"And for the rest—well, that's up to people more important than me. They're the strategists. People like Dodonna. Not me."

Kallus took a glance around the room again. "Then you'll be reporting to them?"

"Reporting what to them?"

"Everything I've just told you."

They looked at one another for a long moment. Zeb's confusion seemed mirrored by the look on Kallus's face, which was uncertain, as if the map he'd started to assemble had cut off at an odd place and left him stranded again. And Zeb didn't feel so different, as a matter of fact.

"You can tell them yourself," Zeb said, frowning.

"This—" Kallus waved a hand between them. "—conversation. It wasn't official?"

Protocol. It was all Imperials thought about. Did the man have friends? Hobbies? Something besides their neat, hideous, regimented work?

"No," Zeb said, telling himself to be patient. To at least _sound_ patient. It came out more...exasperated, but he was _trying_.

"Then why…" Kallus shook his head. "Why did you seek me out?"

"I say what I mean. I'm not clever enough to go tripping people up with words. Thought you could use a friendly ear. That's it." Zeb folded his arms over his chest.

There was a peculiar look on Kallus's face. Not the beginnings of a smirk or a sneer, but a smile. It looked like it had been a long time since he'd practiced.

"Not clever enough," he murmured. "I don't think you give yourself enough credit. You...continue to surprise me."

Zeb mustered his most charming grin. "Detonators are surprising, too."

Kallus's smile widened a little. "The comparison is not lost on me. It's fitting, I think."

Another silence, this one harder to fill. Each successive silence was like that, as the exhaustion sank deeper. But Zeb—karabast, he did not want to sleep. And Kallus's eyelids were drooping, but he looked as if he was fighting it with everything he had, because what would they see? What would either of them see, when they closed their eyes?

Zeb rummaged around in one of the drawers next to him and came up with a few water packs, tossing one over to Kallus, who opened it and drank gratefully. Should've given him that earlier. There was only a little guilt over it.

"I've talked more than enough for a casual conversation," Kallus said. "I know some of what you've done since we last parted ways, but I'm sure there is more, if you…" He gave another little shake of his head. More hair fell free. "I mean that I would like to hear how you've been doing. I've often wondered."

It could have been a lie. A trick Zeb didn't see, meant to lure him into revealing information that maybe the Empire wanted. Kallus would reveal that he had faked his injuries, take over the _Ghost_ , and deposit them all at Thrawn's feet.

But Zeb didn't think so. There was a hesitant earnestness to the way he'd said it, and it resonated with Zeb. He hadn't wasted a lot of time on it or anything, but he'd wondered, too, in the time that had passed, how Kallus was doing. What he was doing. And now that all the answers were laid out before him, it seemed right to return the favor.

"Gimme a minute," he said, "and I'll tell you all about it."

There was Ezra to think about. He didn't want the kid to feel as if he had to stay away, but he had a feeling, too, that Ezra had already passed out somewhere else. He took a blanket with him, just in case, and sure enough, Ezra was quietly snoring in the gunner seat. Zeb tucked the blanket around him and made the trek back, picking up some ration bars on the way.

Kallus was still awake. He took the ration bar Zeb handed him. "Thank you," he said.

Zeb understood that it was for more than food, water, shelter. But it was easier to let it be that alone, for now.

"You know, maybe I won't miss Atollon so much," he said, settling back onto his bunk. "Place was lousy with krykna. We managed to deter them, but…"

With the rest of the ship drowsing around them, they talked, trading stories back and forth—some inconsequential, some not—passing the hours in hyperspace, keeping their eyes open. Maybe it was an excuse to make sure Kallus couldn't put a bolt in his back while he slept. Maybe the awkwardness, the skips in conversation, were better than the alternative. Maybe there was more than one reason, and none of them were easy.

Gut feelings were tricky, but this one was getting steadier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus settles into new duties on Yavin 4. But this is not the Empire; work is not all the Rebellion offers. He just isn't sure what _is_ on offer.

Kallus had always found it easy to fall into a rhythm. A pattern to days and nights, working almost on autopilot. After those last few terror-plagued weeks with the Empire—waiting, poised to be discovered, working feverishly to do what he could before that inevitable final moment—it was a relief to fall back into that here. That he _could_ fall back into that here. That he could do a version of the job he'd been doing most of his life, just with surroundings and faces and uniforms altered.

The opposite of that job, actually, except for when it came down to the moment-to-moment work.

He was off-duty now, though, in the technical sense of the word, and that time was the hardest. He didn't usually care to wander the base; despite the new clothes, he felt exposed, identifiable, too easily recognized. This was an irrational paranoia, he knew. The average rebel had no idea who he was. But he had been very prone to _irrational paranoia_ ever since he'd begun to furtively dig through the Empire's proverbial laundry, and it had kept him safe enough, so he indulged it.

So that left the tiny room that had been assigned to him, as bare as any Imperial quarters had ever been. He had no possessions aside from what the Rebellion had given to him, and he had no interest in collecting things that he would undoubtedly have to abandon eventually. The base would move, someday. If they were lucky, it would be an early evacuation and not a full firefight when they did.

He wished he had not had to leave the meteorite and the bo-rifle behind. He did not like the idea that Thrawn might have collected the bo-rifle, was even now studying it. It had troubled Kallus to carry it, those last few months acting as Fulcrum, but it troubled him more for it to be in Thrawn's possession. _It's not a trophy._ His brain supplied the words, but they were in Zeb's voice.

And the meteorite? What did Thrawn make of that? Its light, its warmth, had burned out not long after Kallus had returned from Bahryn. It was just a rock now. A symbol that had grounded him during those long months, alone, but meaningless in the grasp of a clinical blue hand. This room always felt more oppressive when he remembered its absence.

He was up and at the door before he fully realized what he was doing, and there he stopped, willing himself to stay in the room.

What good could come of seeking Zeb out? It was selfishness. He was not Zeb's responsibility. He was not Zeb's anything, not even his friend. A peripheral ally at best.

But Zeb was what he, Kallus, had remembered, as the meteorite's glow died. His mercy. His compassion. His _honor_. That guidance had been the point he returned to, every time he thought he might let another stone go unturned.

They'd had no more than brief conversations since the long, sleepless hyperspace flight of the _Ghost_ from Atollon. Some days, he spotted Zeb across the operating floor, and Zeb had a brief smile for him, small but encouraging and kind, if a little awkward. And other days Zeb saw Kallus first, and watched him with just-narrowed eyes before turning and walking away. No conversation, however brief. And it was more than fair.

If this was one of those days, then he, too, would turn and leave. He would not press the issue.

Now that he'd worked up the nerve to do it, though, Zeb was nowhere to be found. Not in his quarters on the opposite side of the temple, and not on the operating floor, as far as Kallus could see. He kept his pace brisk, as if he knew exactly where he was going, and no one stopped him or even looked at him askance. The prickle of irrational paranoia was strongest here, and it only began to ease when he stepped out of the temple.

Here, finally, he saw Zeb. He stuck out, gathered with a handful of rebels near the edge of the jungle; the clack of weapons was a dim echo across the sprawling flight deck.

As he approached, he understood: Zeb was sparring with an opponent who was barely holding out. It wasn't the bo-rifle in his hands, but something of similar heft and size, clattering against a matching stick held by another rebel. Zeb wasn't exerting much effort, giving his opponent the chance to take a swing here or there, or even bring his staff up in time to block occasionally. Finally, though, Zeb ended the fight, the end of his weapon sliding beneath a sloppy blow to tap insistently on the man's sternum.

Had it been a bo-rifle, it would have been an incapacitating blow. The rebel yielded.

"You'd better stay at blaster range," Zeb advised him, grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. "Heard you're a good shot, kid."

"I'll practice, sir." He handed the stick over. "Never know when you'll need a backup plan."

"Fair enough." The rebel trotted back toward the small group, grinning sheepishly in the face of their teasing and laughter, as Zeb looked the lot of them over. "All right, who's—"

His eyes fell on Kallus. For an instant, Kallus thought they would narrow, was already bracing himself to step back and slip away, but then Zeb smiled, and then Zeb _grinned_. It was not strictly pleasant; there was something threatening about this particular set of his teeth.

"Ah, Kallus," he said, all satisfaction. "Well, a bit of a challenge is better than no challenge. Get over here."

A _bit_ of a challenge. Kallus's spine stiffened; he brushed past the rebels, approaching the mats where Zeb stood. He told himself not to rise to the baiting, but it did no good.

"We do have a fight to finish." Kallus caught the rough weapon that Zeb threw to him; hefted in hand, it mimicked the weight and size of a bo-rifle in electrostaff configuration. "But I'd prefer even footing, no unnecessary advantages. If the recruits have tired you out…"

There was a low, appreciative murmur from the mentioned recruits. Rebels did love their quippy banter.

Zeb only chuckled—a low _heh, heh, heh_ that truly _was_ menacing. "Tired? It was a nice warm-up."

There was a louder, more enthusiastic murmuring for that. Kallus adjusted his grip on the staff, finding the right place for his hands. "Have it your way, then."

Zeb bounded forward, and Kallus slid out of the way. He did not consider himself particularly fast, but he did have the slight advantage there against Zeb, who hit harder and heavier but a fraction slower. If he took every hit on this feeble quarterstaff, it would break. He ducked beneath another blow, came up, and jabbed Zeb in the ribs.

Zeb took the opportunity to hit him, harder, across the shoulder; his jacket padded the blow, at least. Kallus let himself fall with the hit, holding tight to his makeshift weapon, and rolled back to his feet on the mat a little distance away. Zeb was already advancing. The rebels, the low bustle of the flight deck, all of it fell away.

There was a rhythm to this, too. Familiar, and better than the drudgery of glorified paperwork. Adrenaline hummed in his veins, pulsed in his ears. He met the next blow and the next, working to maneuver into an attack instead of just defending. He got the opportunity again eventually, skirting around a swing of Zeb's staff and whacking him across the back instead.

Easier to let Zeb wear himself out with all these blows that didn't connect, to frustrate him, if Kallus could just keep getting out of the way fast enough. And he wasn't always fast enough. Zeb knocked him down again, catching behind his left leg and sweeping away his balance; Kallus rolled away, avoiding the follow-up strike—it landed on the mat instead—and got back to his feet.

"Now who doesn't know when to give up?" Zeb taunted, but he was still grinning.

Kallus moved in; Zeb met every blow, knocking them aside, but didn't see the foot until it connected with his stomach, shoving him back.

"Still you," Kallus said, advancing again. "I can outlast you, and you know it."

Zeb laughed at the goading, and Kallus realized he was grinning, too. _Enjoying_ this. Fighting not for life or death, but just for the challenge. And Zeb _was_ a challenge, a good one, a puzzle. In this arena, where he was not desperate or taken by surprise, Kallus thought that Zeb had the upper hand, between the pair of them. He was an accomplished warrior; despite the words said in the spirit of the challenge, Kallus would have to work to best him.

"As long as you don't get your leg broken, sure," Zeb said, circling. "Maybe then you've got the stamina to take me."

The eyes watched for an opening. He'd burned through his earlier energy and was going to tread more cautiously now. It might have all been a ploy to see what Kallus was capable of when pressed, and now he would draw on his reserves and hit all the weak points he'd noticed.

The mentioned leg was aching a bit, true. Not enough to step lightly on it, but making itself known. Zeb hadn't landed a single blow on it. Hadn't even tried.

If they had met in the field again, enemies instead of allies, would he have tried? Kallus didn't think so. Too honorable, dedicated to the fair fight, to even footing. It was an admirable quality.

"What would you know about stamina?" Kallus returned. "You spend all of yours while your opponents duck out of reach."

The gap closed. Zeb hit hard, hard enough to send a jolt of pain up Kallus's arms and into his shoulders from taking the blow on his own staff. But he held out. He snuck in a few more hits as they lost the breath for taunts and goading. Zeb knocked him down again, and he was slower to get back up.

He was losing. He knew it. Zeb knew it. It stung his pride a little—all right, more than a little—but there was some pride in having lasted this long, too. And, true to Zeb's assessment, he fought tooth and nail until the end, getting up again, getting up again, until he brought the staff up to block another blow from where he'd landed on one knee, and it snapped beneath the force of it.

He let the broken stick drop. The dull point of Zeb's makeshift weapon was at his throat.

"All right," he said, with both exasperation and reluctance, but he was so out of breath that he could barely convey either. "I yield. You win."

For a moment there was a thick, almost astonished silence. He remembered their audience; it had been so easy to forget them, with all his attention on holding out against Zeb.

"Hah," Zeb said, offering a hand down to help him up. "Well fought."

He grasped Zeb's hand and Zeb hauled him up, setting him back on his feet. There was some applause and an enthusiastic whistle or two from the gathered rebels. For Zeb, yes, but they gave Kallus a few admiring looks, too.

The serenity brought on by battle shattered, stabbed through by guilt, by shame. The oppressive weight of it snuck in again, settling into place. He held it as well as he could.

"Enough for today," Zeb told the rebels, waving them off. They went, talking excitedly amongst themselves.

_Kid_ , Zeb had called his earlier opponent. And they were, still. Caught up in the thrill of approaching glory without knowing what shape it would take—without knowing if glory would come for them at all.

"An interesting training regimen," Kallus said.

"Like any of them will be able to use it," Zeb muttered, ears lowering a little. "By the time a buckethead gets close enough to hit them with something other than a blaster, they're probably already dead."

"Then why do you bother?"

Zeb grunted and turned away; for a moment, Kallus thought he would leave—demonstration complete, after all, fight finished, point proven—but he only went as far as the temple steps to sit down. Kallus followed.

"Not so many people available to spar with, with Kanan and Ezra gone, and they cheat, anyway." Zeb gave him a considering, sidelong look. "Maybe I've found a decent replacement."

"Apparently I could use the improvement."

Zeb laughed. Nothing unnerving about this one; only amused, pleased by Kallus's admission. It rankled. "Maybe you're just out of practice."

"No." Much as it grated him to admit it, he knew the truth now. "You are simply the superior fighter. I might scrape a win here or there, but in a fair fight, we know who is better."

"Heard it's bad for humans to grind their teeth like that," Zeb said, mouth curling into a smirk.

Kallus unclenched his jaw. "Regardless, I don't have a bo-rifle anymore. I had to leave it and the…" He caught himself. It was only because he had been thinking of it earlier that he'd slipped. Only because it was what had driven him here. "I had to leave it behind," he finished.

Zeb could easily have let it go, but he did not. Ears lifting a little, the smirk fading. "And the what?"

He could stand the goading, the taunting, for a fight—welcomed it, actually—but he didn't want to be made fun of for this. Neither did he want to lie, however. Lies, he hoped to leave indefinitely behind him.

"The meteorite," he said. He watched the jungle instead of Zeb; something large, with wide wings, flew overhead and plunged into it in the gathering dark.

"Huh. You kept it."

Not a question, but an invitation to explain. And no hint of mockery.

How _to_ explain it? He knew what the meteorite had become, eventually. He did not know what the dim version of himself that had existed in the wake of Bahryn had been doing, though, keeping it. He did not remember much of that time. Likely, he knew, he simply did not want to remember.

"Sometimes I wanted to throw it out," he admitted. "There were days when I fell back into place in the Empire, became what I had been. I would return to my quarters at night and see it. I would remember what I had learned. I thought that things might go back to the way they were if it wasn't there to remind me. But every time I almost got rid of it, I realized that I was afraid to be in the dark again."

Well, that sounded very vague. And more than a little sentimental. He braced for condescension; he'd left himself wide open for it.

Instead, Zeb's hand landed on his shoulder—heavy, reassuring. "I'm sorry you had to leave it," he said. Gruff, maybe unsure, but not mocking.

What a strange person, this Zeb. Always doing and saying the unexpected. Kallus had rarely felt so wrongfooted in his life.

"It was only a rock," he said, trying to get back on even ground. "I'm more sorry about the bo-rifle. Thrawn undoubtedly has it now."

Zeb's hand gave his shoulder a little shake before withdrawing. "Maybe you can make another one."

Kallus turned his head to look at Zeb. Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed—disgruntled, like his voice had been. He knew Kallus was capable of making another, given the modifications to the first. Maybe inferior to the true weapon, but similar in spirit. He'd misunderstood. Or Kallus hadn't made himself clear enough.

"I only meant that Thrawn shouldn't have it," Kallus said, picking his words with care. "That _I_ should not have had it, either. I will gladly spar with you when you like, but I think I will stick to a rifle in combat, for now."

Zeb looked up from his troubled musing. Something in his face lightened as understanding sank in. There was pride, maybe, in that look. Gratitude. Kallus did not have a right to those things, but he appreciated them all the same, lifting the burden of the guilt that was working, steadily, to bury him. It was not unlike having the glow of that meteorite back.

_That_ was sentimental. He would not repeat it.

"Thrawn was right, mate," Zeb said, conspiratorially. "You _do_ have the heart of a rebel."

It had been his lowest moment. The moment of absolute failure. But he remembered the vicious pride that had welled up in him at Thrawn's words, the defiance that had coursed through him, eradicating all pain, all fear. He had never been more _certain_ than in that moment. He had never felt as alive. He had not been able to leave it out of the story he'd told Zeb on the flight to Yavin 4. It had felt too important to omit.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he replied, and Zeb laughed again, loud and long, maybe at the way Kallus had said the words. Aggrieved, but pleased, too.

If he had a friend left in the galaxy, it was Zeb. Perhaps it wasn't so foolish to believe that it could run both ways, even after everything. If he was better than he had been, then maybe.

That was the trouble with rebels. They had a way of inspiring hope when there was no grounds for it, no one worthy of it. Still. It was better than the alternative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really fond of the idea that Zeb, Kanan, and Ezra practice melee combat together. And that Zeb considers any use of the Force as a blatant foul.


End file.
